Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Park here,’ I say, directing Carol to the gate leading to the field I know Raven’s caravan is in.
She takes her foot off the pedal and yanks up the handbrake, her hand shaking.
‘It’s not much,’ she says, lifting her handbag and digging around inside it on her lap. ‘But take this.’
She hands me a small black object, and I turn it over in my hand.
‘It’s an alarm. If anything gets out of control, press it. It’s loud,’ she explains. ‘If anything, it’ll disorientate Raven for a moment.’
I’m filled with a rush of love for her, my dearest friend.
How could I have doubted her? Why had she made me feel so anxious?
She has always had my best interests at heart.
She just doesn’t want me to be arrested, to spend years in prison for trying to find out the truth.
I should never have doubted her. I blink back tears, nodding vigorously.
‘Thank you,’ I say, scooping the alarm from her hand.
‘And I have this.’ She pulls out a small pocketknife, something so flimsy looking it could’ve come from a Christmas cracker, but it will have to do. ‘But remember, Raven and Skyla might not be here.’
It isn’t what I want to hear. She has to be here; she just has to be. I wouldn’t know where else to look. I breathe out, too afraid to look up and spill the tears that have formed.
‘If they aren’t here, we’ll come up with a Plan B,’ she promises. ‘We’ll find her, Bella. Trust me.’
I nod, keeping my head dipped and my mouth sealed, on the verge of breaking. I’m desperately trying to keep it together. Falling apart now won’t help anything. It will only hinder us finding Skyla.
‘Let’s go.’ Carol opens her car door, and I follow suit, the alarm she’s given me bulky in my palm. I squeeze it gently, careful not to set it off but liking the comfort it brings me, this gadget so similar to the hidden camera in my bookshelf.
The field is even more overgrown than before, the parched grass rolling like waves around our thighs as we work our way over to the caravan.
‘You’re sure she lives here?’ Carol asks, dodging nettles and stirring up dandelion pappus that parachute into the air, dancing around us.
‘Just up ahead,’ I huff, indicating in the direction of the trailer. ‘This is where I dropped her off once.’ I point at the caravan.
‘That?’ she asks, the scepticism in her voice hard to miss as we get closer to Raven’s rusted, derelict home.
My answer is a subtle nod. As we get closer, I chance a look back to the direction of the gate, hoping to see James running through the field.
I know it’s wishful thinking, and I do feel bad for calling him behind Carol’s back, for thinking Carol could be wanting to hurt me.
I don’t even know if he took the call, but if he did, he’ll know where we are and he’ll come and help us find Skyla — that’s all I can ask for.
Because I don’t know how to do this without him.
He is my rock, the protector of our family.
Every shred of resentment I’ve ever harboured against him for not keeping Robin safe all those years ago evaporates.
I don’t hate him the way I sometimes tell myself I do.
I love him — and I appreciate him so much, him and all of his thick headedness.
If only I could tell him that now. Shaking my head, I try to shove these thoughts from my mind.
As much as I feel like I need him here, I know I can’t wait.
Skyla could be in danger, and I have to get to her before something happens.
Standing outside, everything seems silent.
I think, maybe, that should be a good sign, unless of course, it’s not.
Because it’s almost too quiet, it feels wrong.
I rap my knuckles on the fibreglass door of the caravan, hard.
At first, there’s no movement, no sound coming from inside.
But I knock again, harder, because the quiet is heavy, unnatural.
A creak comes from within, weight tipping the caravan on its frame. I turn and look at Carol, standing guard. My nerves are climbing up and into my throat.
‘It’s okay,’ she mouths, trying to reassure me with a nod.
From behind those fly-infested curtains, a shadow drifts, curling away and out of sight.
‘Delivery!’ I shout in a gruff voice, questioning myself instantly.
Do people deliver to caravans? I don’t even know if this woman has planning permission, if this field is hers.
Is she squatting? The door to the caravan bursts open and a woman stands in front of me in a stained, baggy tracksuit.
She looks from my empty hands to me, and her eyes grow into saucers.
At first, I’m stunned it isn’t Raven who answers the door.
Every way I’d played this scene out in my head started with me confronting Raven about who she is and why she’s taken Skyla.
I never pictured I’d come face to face with her mother, or the woman pretending to be her mother I should say.
The woman who took my little girl from her cot fourteen years ago.
It takes me a while to place her, and perhaps it’s because she’s not in heels, dressed to the nines. Her hair is static. Whatever colour she usually dyes it has faded to a patchy shade of orange.
‘Gabby?’ I splutter, still unsure.
‘Hello, Bella,’ she says, her eyes squinting in the daylight.
She leans on the doorframe, the caravan rocking precariously to one side.
Blowing out a puff of smoke, she flicks cigarette ash to my feet.
It’s Gabby, the admin assistant from my old office in Bristol, the one who sent me lilies when Robin disappeared.
‘I don’t understand.’ I step back, stumbling in the uneven earth. Carol catches me before I fall, lifting me back up.
‘Who is that?’ she asks softly, but I can’t answer her, because I don’t know what to say. I don’t know who the woman in front of me really is, not any more.
Raven appears behind Gabby and the reality of seeing them together makes me flinch. What the hell is happening here? How are they together?
‘This is why you didn’t want me here that day, isn’t it? Because you knew I’d recognise Gabby if I saw her.’ I wrinkle my nose at Raven, feeling every muscle in my face quiver in anger.
The look Gabby gives me is hard, a smirk, splashed with hate.
I ignore it, because I don’t care if she’s Vicky or Gabby or someone else entirely at the moment.
I don’t care that Raven is somehow here, with her — all I care about is finding my daughter and making sure that she is safe.
She is my priority. All of my unanswered questions can wait.
‘Where is Skyla?’ I snarl.
‘She’s where she belongs.’ Gabby folds her arms across her chest.
The grass is restless, scratching at my legs. A crow lands on a fence post close by, watching us closely, a bystander assessing the situation. All the while Carol stands behind me, motionless, the pocketknife slipped up her sleeve. Waiting.
‘Tell me where my daughter—’ My demand peters out as a scream, unmistakably Skyla’s, explodes from inside the caravan.
‘Mum!’
A chill ripples down my spine. Raven and Gabby both jump, twirling back inside the caravan. I take my chance, running at full force, slamming the side of my body into Gabby as I break my way through the door. She crashes to the floor, the cupboards on either side of us rattling as I pin her down.
‘Skyla?’ I cry out, searching the area, so small the walls seem to be pressing in on us, but I can’t see her.
It’s smoky inside, the caravan’s wallboard faded from sunlight, the laminate flooring bubbling and curling from water damage.
There is stuff everywhere. Stacks of boxes piled high, some toppled over, spilled open.
Hundreds of old yellowed newspapers scatter every available surface.
I squint at one of the headlines, the ink bleeding into the fibres of the paper, making it hard to read, but there it is: Isabella Rushmore — Grieving Mother or Killer?
My eyes dart to another tea-stained newspaper: What Are the Rushmores Hiding?
Every single article scattered around the caravan is about me, my family and the disappearance of Robin.
Why does Gabby have all these here? I look around some more, trying to find my daughter.
We need to leave this place, now. I heard her scream from somewhere inside here.
Where is she?
‘Tell me where my daughter is before I crack your skull open,’ I shout, threatening Gabby by pushing her face down into the warped, musty floor.
She moves jerkily beneath me, struggling to breathe.
‘Bella, stop!’ Carol gasps from outside but I don’t stop, nothing can stop me now until I know my daughter is safe, and if I have to kill Gabby for that to happen then I will. God help whoever stands in my way.
‘Mum, over here!’ Skyla’s voice comes from the other end of the caravan, where bunkbeds have been crammed into the corner almost as an afterthought.
I have no choice but to let Gabby go. As I do, I give her a firm kick to the ribs. She curls into a tight ball, choking back pain. Taking the three strides needed to get to the bunkbeds, I find Skyla bound in a corner, a big, mottled bruise starting to appear on her forehead.
‘What have they done to you?’ I ask, clawing at the rope around her ankles and wrists.
I hate myself for somehow allowing this to happen, for not being able to keep my daughter safe.
It’s a feeling that greets me like an old friend, one no longer welcome.
But I am here now, I’ve got Skyla in my arms, and she isn’t badly hurt.
She’s okay. She’s going to be okay. I touch her every limb just to be sure and sigh with relief.
This time, I can be the mother I should have been all those years ago.
‘It’s okay, baby. I’m here,’ I say, working her hands free. I pull her to my chest and hold her close, let her warm tears dampen my skin.
Carol peers through the front door. The pocketknife is out, glinting in her hand. I can tell from the horrified look on her face she doesn’t want to have to use it.
‘I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,’ Raven speaks, and I turn to find her sitting at a tiny table, almost invisible behind the piles of junk around her.
Her inky black eyes shine on me, narrowing with contempt. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’
‘Ruined what?’ I ask, keeping Skyla close, shielding her as best I can.
‘The plan,’ Gabby rasps, clutching hold of her side as she steps towards me. I wonder if I’ve broken a rib. I hope I have.
As I reel back on the mattress with Skyla in my arms, Gabby starts to laugh bitterly.
‘What plan?’ I look at them, Gabby in her dirty tracksuit, hair unkempt, and Raven, tiny and delicate, yet vicious.
She looks so small behind the boxes surrounding her, not just angry, but sad too.
I don’t think she wants me to see it, but her misery stands out on her features, blindingly obvious.
I can’t stop the questions, my own curiosity.
Why is she sad — and what plan have I ruined?
‘Oh, come on,’ Gabby says, slapping her hands to her thighs. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out already.’
‘Worked what out?’ My head starts to pound. There’s too many unanswered questions.
‘Bella, I’m—’
Gabby’s words are cut short. A loud booming voice echoes through the mist. James’s voice. Thank God. Gabby turns in the direction it came from.
‘It’s too late,’ she sighs, her confidence crumbling as her smile shakes.
Too late for what? I wonder. What am I supposed to have worked out by now?
That Gabby is Vicky? That Gabby and Raven live together, that they’re somehow in this together?
Whatever this is, I still don’t know. I don’t know what they want.
My hands grasp a pile of newspaper clippings, each one another report on Robin’s case.
Raven must be Robin. Why else would they be this invested in our story?
And the DNA test results confirmed it — unless Raven did something.
She was in the house with the envelope in her hands.
It was the DNA Match envelope, wasn’t it?
There wasn’t another envelope like it, and it’s not like we get any mail addressed to her.
What could she have been doing with an envelope in her hands besides snooping into things?
I need to figure out what the hell is going on.
‘Hello, James,’ Gabby says, enigmatic.
I whip round, coming face to face with my husband.
Carol has stepped to the side, letting James inside the caravan.
Is she still holding the pocketknife? I search her hands, but they’re empty.
My eyes drop and there on the floor is the knife.
The only protection we had, until now. James is strong. He can overpower Gabby if needed.
‘James!’ I breathe, clutching Skyla close but knowing we’re okay now. He won’t let anything happen to us.
‘Bella, has she—’
Whatever he’s about to say falls away, evaporating on his lips. I scan his face, distressed, panic-stricken. I want to reach out, to ask him what’s wrong, but there’s a heaviness in the air between us holding me still.
‘No, James. I haven’t told her,’ Gabby spits, and that’s when I look up at her. Eyes the colour of a winter’s sky, glistening with tears, stay fixed on my husband. ‘But if you don’t, I will.’